With Joffre at Verdun Part 4

CHAPTER IV

The Heart of Germany

"A farm, I think, and a big one by the look of it. There should be food, and plenty of it, down there," said Jules, moistening his lips and springing eagerly out from the cover into the open.

Indeed, down below them, on that side of the hill where the copse was situated, a scene was spread out than which there could have been none more pleasant in France or in old England, or indeed in any other part of the world. A smiling, wooded landscape stretched into the far distance, broken into plots of neatly tilled fields, and intersected at one point by a river, which, winding between the hills and flowing sluggishly through forest country, disappeared in the distance, carrying on one of its banks the broad track of a railway. In the foreground, perhaps five hundred yards away only, there was that farm to which Jules had pointed--a typical German farm, its outhouses cl.u.s.tered about it, cattle in its yard, and poultry feeding round it.

Smoke was issuing from one of the chimneys, and it required no great imagination on the part of those three to visualize the kitchen at the other end of the chimney--a broad, stone-flagged kitchen maybe, with a deep, old-fashioned ingle-nook, and pots and pans about it.

"Phew! It makes a fellow's mouth water," declared Stuart, looking hungrily at the farm. "To think that there are people down there who have got plenty to eat, and here are we up here simply longing for it.

I suppose it wouldn't do to venture down?"

Henri shook his head emphatically.

"Not as we are, certainly not," he declared. "For residence in Ruhleben hasn't exactly improved our appearance. To begin with, Stuart--no offence, of course--you'll quite understand, a shave and haircut wouldn't come amiss, would it? As for Jules--our dandy Jules, whose socks and turn-out were the envy of all the youth of Paris--not to mention Berlin, before the war broke out--he's hardly 'it', is he?"

"Oh!"

There came an exclamation from Jules, while he grimaced at Henri.

"Not 'it'," he cried, and then laughed as he glanced at his own person and then back at Henri. "Well, a fellow has to admit that there's not one of us fit to enter decent society; but it ain't our fault, is it?

Not exactly. Only, as Henri says, it would give us away badly if we went down to the farm and demanded victuals. Still, the fact remains that a chap can't help feeling hungry, particularly when he looks at that smoke coming from the chimney, and the fowls all round. Couldn't a fellow slink down, knock one of them over with a stone, and bring it back?"

Even that was out of the question, and each one of them realized it.

Their only safe course, indeed, was to remain hidden as they were in that cover till the night came again, when, tramp-like, they would take to the road once more, and, tramp-like, might rob some hen-roost to provide a meal for the morrow. Yet it was hard, and became harder still as the hours went by, to put up without even those scanty meals which had been accorded them at Ruhleben.

However, they had other things to occupy their attention when the afternoon had come, for a messenger mounted on a motor-bicycle dashed along the road, a soldier, who drew up at the farm beneath them, and, having given some message, went on his way, and could be seen calling at other farms in the far distance. Later in the evening, other sounds from the road attracted the ears of the fugitives, and, as the dusk was settling over the country, they watched a party of weary soldiers marching by, dragging behind them a couple of bloodhounds. These halted at the farm and presently entered it.

"Taken up their quarters there for the night," said Henri, "and I should say without a doubt that the cyclist messenger was sent to warn the farmers all round, while parties of men have been sent in various directions to try to trace us with hounds. Not a very pleasant outlook, is it?"

"I shouldn't care a rap," declared Stuart, "if it weren't for the hounds. Somehow or other we will obtain food and drink, and so long as we get that we can keep on marching at night-time and can hide up during the day; but hounds can track us anywhere, and will soon drive us out of cover. We have got to set ourselves to work to beat them.

But how? It bothers me, and I can't see a way out of the difficulty."

Jules whistled; he often did that when he was rather bothered.

"Beastly idea being tracked by hounds," he said; "sends a chill down a fellow's spine, and makes one's hair feel like rising. But isn't there a way out? If those hounds are put on our track--and it beats me how it is that they didn't discover that we had pa.s.sed along the road--they'll soon trace us into this cover, unless we can, as the British say, contrive to draw a line across it which will break the scent and take them off in another direction. What about the river?"

"The river, of course," exclaimed Henri. "I never gave it a thought; but of course it's the thing for us. Why not start now; it's dark enough, and we can make our way straight down to it. As for food, once we get across, there's a farm yonder, just behind the railway, which might easily provide something."

They were up on their legs by now, staring into the dusk which now covered the country, and, having discussed the matter for a few moments, and seen the wisdom of an instant move, they left the trees and trudged off across the open fields till they gained a field track, and, following that, reached the bank of the river. Stepping in, they soon found themselves wading into deep water, and presently were forced to swim.

"Hold on a minute," spluttered Henri, who was leading the party, "don't let's go straight across; let the stream carry us downwards."

Flat on their backs, and keeping close together by holding hands, the trio were swept slowly down the stream till they had floated almost half a mile from the point where they had entered the water; then they struggled ash.o.r.e, and, clambering up the bank and crossing the railroad, sought for the farm which they had observed from the hill-top. Twinkling lights in the windows attracted their attention, and within half an hour they were close to it.

"Better sit down for a moment and talk things over," said the cautious Stuart. "It wouldn't do for the whole three of us to go up to the place and demand food, and I'm rather doubtful if it 'ud do for even one of us. You said this morning, Henri, that not one of us was over presentable, while I should say that now that our clothing is soaked we are very much more dilapidated and unpresentable."

"Then suppose I go and skirmish about the place," Henri suggested. "If I happen to b.u.mp into someone, I speak German like a native and may easily be able to pa.s.s muster. On the other hand, if I don't happen to meet anyone, I can pry about the place, and I should say that I am just as likely to be able to rob a hen-roost as you or Jules. You stay here, and when I whistle, answer, for otherwise it will be a d.i.c.kens of a job to find you."

Gaining a road which ran beside the railway, and from which a track led up to the farm where the lights twinkled, Henri proceeded at a rapid rate till he was within a few yards of the residence, when he made a cautious circle of it and gathered the information that one of the front rooms was illuminated, while at the back of the house there was but a feeble glimmer, and from that front room came, as he listened, the sounds of music--the notes of an organ and the deep voice of a man singing.

"Fortunate," he told himself, "for it'll drown any sounds that I may make. First thing will be to investigate the back of the house, where there's that glimmer. I shouldn't wonder if it was the kitchen."

Stealing round towards the back of the house, and pa.s.sing through a wicket-gate which gave entrance to the farm-yard, he tiptoed across the cobbles of the latter, and was brought up sharply by cannoning into a barrel, which fell over with a crash. Instantly Henri leapt against the wall and crouched in the deep shadow, fearful lest the noise should have alarmed the inmates, or, worse still, should have set some watch-dog barking; but no noise followed to tell him that his presence was detected, while, as if to give him greater a.s.surance, the notes of the organ and that deep, manly voice came even louder to his ears, proving that those within the house had heard nothing.

"It's a chance in a hundred," he told himself. "Here's the back door--shut and locked--eh? No, not locked--opens easily, and--and--ah!--the twinkling light is caused by a fire--a kitchen, right enough--that looks like food; now where is it?"

Entering the place without hesitation, he groped about till his fingers lit upon a dresser, and then upon a candle, which he lit by bending over the flames of the fire and igniting the wick. Then he made a thorough search of the place, only to discover that there was not a sc.r.a.p of food present. However, there was a door leading out of the back of the kitchen into a small outhouse, and there he found a larder well stocked with provisions.

"All's fair in love and war," he said, as he looked about him. "A sausage--eh, that's something--and a round of beef, which is something better. Here's a loaf of bread, and, 'pon my word, a basket and some bottles of beer--what more does a fellow want?"

To appropriate the articles, to pop them into the basket, to blow out the candle, and to march from the kitchen were the work of a few moments. He slunk away from the farm, out through the wicket-gate, along the path which he had pursued, back towards the river, and then gave vent to a whistle. There came at once an answering whistle, and, getting his direction from the sound, Henri soon found himself by his companions.

"W--w--what have you got?" said Jules, his teeth chattering, his words broken and shredded by the cold from which he was suffering. Even the stalwart and healthy Stuart was no better.

"Y--y--yes?" he demanded, though there was no fire in his question, and but little eagerness. "W--w--what the d--d--d.i.c.kens have you got in that b--b--basket? Lor! W--w--what a weight it is, and, by all the saints! b--b--beer bottles--well I'm b--b--b--blest!"

"You're beastly cold at any rate," said Henri; "too cold by far to enjoy cold bottled beer, cold beef, and cold sausage, while I'm beautifully warm, thanks to the exercise I've been taking. Look here, you fellows, it's no use our attempting to stay out here and eat our rations, for we'll catch our death of cold; and no wonder, seeing that it often freezes at night in this season. I'll tell you what we'll do.

There's not a dog in that farm which I have just visited, and there are outhouses in plenty. Why not make our way to one of them and make a bed in some straw or hay if possible."

In any case active exercise was what was required by Jules and Stuart, for after their immersion in the river, and the thorough soaking they had received, lying still in the gra.s.s at the side of the road waiting for Henri's return--a cold and chilly business at any time--had become doubly cold. They were chilled to the bone now, their teeth chattering so hard that it was with difficulty they could speak, while a natural appet.i.te--an appet.i.te increased by their enforced abstention from food during a whole day, their rapid crossing of the country since they had broken out of Ruhleben, and their movements on this evening--was dulled by the temperature to which their bodies had been lowered.

"B--b--beastly cold," Stuart admitted, and he was the very last individual to grumble as a general rule. "S--s--sound c--c--common sense, Henri. Let's get off to these b--buildings and search for some hay. Somehow or other we must get some warmth into our bodies."

He stood in the darkness before the other two, swinging his arms with vigour and trying to beat some sort of circulation into his frigid fingers; then, picking up the basket as if to increase the warmth of his body by added effort, he went off beside Henri, Jules marching on the farther side, his teeth still chattering, utterly cold and miserable. However, the sharp walk to the farm made them feel warmer, so that they had almost stopped shivering by the time they reached the yard. From outside the window of that front room, which was still illuminated, they listened to the sound of the notes of the organ which was still being played, and to the music of that deep ba.s.s voice still warbling in the interior.

"Jolly nice it sounds too," said Stuart, "and I reckon that anyone--even a German--ought to be able to sing when in a comfortable room, probably with a nice blazing fire. A nice fire, Henri--a nice fire. George! wouldn't that be ripping!"

Henri led them on round the end of the building, through the wicket-gate into the yard, and halted again outside the kitchen door.

If only they had dared enter in a body, if only they could have found a welcome in that warm place, how great a relief it would have been, what comfort it would have brought to them all, and what a pleasure it would have been after the life they had lived in Ruhleben. But if they had found little comfort in the camp where they had been interned, if they had found few or no friends amongst their guards and amongst the staff appointed to watch over them, they were just as little likely to discover friends outside the camp in any portion of Germany. Indeed, every part of the land of the Kaiser was inhabited by a people antagonistic to the last degree to an enemy amongst them. In those early days, when Henri and Jules had first been captured, the arrogance of their captors, the hatred of the mob, and the unbridled pa.s.sions of the Kaiser's people might easily have resulted in those two hapless prisoners being torn to pieces. But for the police they would probably have been slain in the streets of Berlin, for, thanks to them, all but minor injury was forbidden, while insults, blows if possible, and curses were hurled at them. But that was in August, 1914, at the commencement of the war--a war for which Germany had prepared during forty-two years of peace, a war antic.i.p.ated and waited eagerly for by mult.i.tudes of Germans, and one which they believed was to make them the ruling nation of the world. That was in August, 1914, as we have said, and now see the change. Months had gone by since Germany, prepared to the last detail--with an army in full readiness and trained for its task, and with a population trained also for helpful service to the army--had thrown herself upon Russia and France and Belgium, had found them unprepared, had beaten them back, had decimated the country of King Albert of the Belgians, had made Louvain a shambles, and had set the streets of Dinant running with the blood of her victims. Yet she had not triumphed. She had captured enemy country, to be sure, she had driven France and the British ally--which had so quickly come to the side of the French--back towards the sea-coast, and she had hurled Russia out of East Prussia, and, after the st.u.r.dy advance of the Grand Duke Nicholas into Galicia and the fall of the fortress of Przemysl, had fallen upon him with mighty force, had discovered the Russians short of ammunition and of artillery, and had driven the forces of the Tsar back towards Warsaw and other cities. Yes, Germany had gained much territory, and had lost many, many lives. Yet, see what now faced her; not victory, but embarra.s.sment on every side: a trench-line running from north to south in Russia--a trench-line against which her weakened battalions had battered in vain, a line held by the forces of the Tsar, even though short of ammunition, so securely that Germany could not advance; and on the west another trench-line, which, after the battle of the Marne, had been extended westward and northward to the sea-coast and blocked the advance of the Kaiser's forces just as securely as did those lines in Russia.

In short, the triumphal march of Germany had been abruptly stopped, in spite of those forty-two years of preparation. The prize so nearly seized--so certain to fall to the armies of Prussia, as the people of Germany thought--Paris, in fact, had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from the armies of the Kaiser at the very last moment; the cup of triumph had, indeed, been dashed to pieces on the Marne, where French and British soldiers, turning at bay after that glorious retreat from Mons, had fallen upon the Germans, had driven them north across the river, had sent them fleeing to the Aisne, and had there read them a lesson.

Possessing still much territory of her enemies, but checked on every side, Germany had yet not achieved her object by a great deal. She had, in fact, failed most utterly and most miserably; for to have proved successful--as successful as she had designed and had confidently hoped to be--she should, in the first few months of the war, have thoroughly beaten the French and have crushed the armies of the Tsar. But she had failed to do either, in spite of her treacherous invasion of Belgium; for the coming of the British had helped not a little to turn the tables. It had held up the advance on Paris, it had helped to drive the Germans over the Marne, it had held the gate to Calais at Ypres--where the forces sent from England had shattered the Prussian Guard, the best of Germany's troops. Indeed, one may say that the inclusion of Great Britain in the fighting had given vital a.s.sistance to France and Belgium and Russia, had gone some long way to check the mad triumphal rush of the German bully upon her unready enemies, and had a.s.sisted in the erection of that barrier of trenches which held the enemy in check; while, beyond the fighting-line, Britain called for her volunteers to form new armies, and France completed the mobilization of her men and made ready to shatter the invader.

Disappointment had taken the place of elation, of arrogance, in Germany. Bitter hatred of England was paramount, and, next to it, detestation of France and all that was French. Such hatred was greater, we may say, amongst the civil population of Germany than amongst the men in the army. Indeed, so great was it that had the treatment of prisoners of war been left to them--treatment none too good and often diabolical when conducted by officials of the army--not a prisoner would have survived; and, for the same reason, escaping prisoners, such as Jules and Henri and Stuart, might look for little else from the inhabitants of Germany than blows, than immediate betrayal to guards, than persecution and harsh treatment.

"Here we are on the far side of the yard, and this looks like an open shed in which carts are stored. Yes, carts," repeated Henri, having driven his shin rather violently against a shaft, and with difficulty refrained from giving loud expression to his feelings. "Let's have a look at the roof. Stop here a minute, while I prospect and see whether there's a loft."

Stepping back into the yard, he stared up overhead, and, thanks to the fact that the night was not excessively dark, was able to detect the line of roof as it cut across the sky. From its height it gave promise of a loft under its shelter, and, searching round for some access to it, Henri presently stumbled upon a wooden staircase. Clambering up it, he was astonished to find a glimmer of light coming through the c.h.i.n.ks of a door on his left, and, applying his eye to those c.h.i.n.ks, discovered a fire burning on a brick hearth in a room of small dimensions. To open the door quietly was the most sensible procedure, and, lifting the latch and pushing the door before him, he carefully investigated every corner of the room.

"Looks as though it were used by some farm hand, or a groom of some sort," he told himself. "In any case, it's warm and comfortable and untenanted, and will allow us to strip off our clothes and dry ourselves."

Turning abruptly on his heel, he crept slowly down the staircase, and very soon had brought Stuart and Jules to the warm quarters he had discovered. There, indeed, they stripped off their wet clothing and hung it in front of the fire, which, by diligent prodding and by an addition of logs which lay beside it, was soon giving off a fine heat, and was crackling and blazing merrily.

"A mighty fine feed," declared Stuart, now without a stutter in his voice and without a chatter about his teeth. "Henri, my boy, you're a n.o.bleman, or ought to be one; and if you aren't, all I can say is, that the French Government don't know what they're doing. And because why?

Well, now, I'll just tell you," he proceeded, his mouth half full of sausage, a huge piece in one hand, and a slice of bread in the other, while between his feet, as he stood on the floor, there rested a bottle of beer already opened. "Because why, my boy? Well, here's the reason: our friend Henri contrived, in the first place, to attract our attention to a spot in Ruhleben where escape seemed possible--I'm not going to say that he was the chief cause of our undertaking the venture, but he was one of us--accompanied us to the outside of the entanglements, and led us away from the camp. It was his and Jules's idea to escape those dogs by swimming and floating all this distance down the river, and, though we ain't altogether clear of 'em yet, we're on the high road to be so. But--and here I'll take a denial from no one"--and at that moment he looked across at Jules, as if to challenge him to controvert the statement--"but our friend Henri is the man mainly responsible for bringing us to the farm, for procuring, first of all, food and drink, and then providing warm quarters. If I was the French Government, he'd have every honour possible. As it is, why--well--" said Stuart, hesitating, and taking another bite of sausage, "why, now--I'll drink his health, and that's the best I can do at the moment."

He lifted the bottle, and, tossing his head back, let the frothy fluid, so beloved of the Germans, trickle into his mouth and down his throat, and, gasping at last, replaced it on the floor beside him. Yes, it was a meal which delighted the hearts of all three of them, a meal to be looked back upon, one which, if they escaped safely from the country and lived to tell the tale, would be spoken of in glowing terms as a reminiscence to be thankful for, and an item amongst hundreds during their adventure to be emphasized, to be picked out as momentous, and to be expatiated on in the warmest language.

"And now, what do we do?" asked Stuart, when the meal was finished and each had enjoyed a cigarette--for the cautious Stuart had brought some with him. "One's natural inclination is to stretch out on these boards and sleep in the warmth of the fire; but that, just as naturally, raises the question as to whether it would be wise, and as to whether it would not lead to certain discovery in the morning."